


in the indigos of darkness

by 75hearts



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Akallabêth, Disabled Character, F/M, Gen, Mortality, Númenor, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Religion, Second Age, Suicide Attempt, Sympathetic King's Men, idk how to tag 'tw: the canon events of the akallabeth' but like. yeah., mentions of Sauron
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-22 18:53:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19971088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/75hearts/pseuds/75hearts
Summary: a story about found family, three unrepentant king’s men under pharazôn, disability, religion, and death. originally posted on tumblr two months ago: https://daywillcomeagain.tumblr.com/post/185029495069/in-the-indigos-of-darkness





	in the indigos of darkness

Saptharôth first saw the face of Melkor when she was six. She fell to the ground in convulsions; her father screamed and her mother, rushing to the noise, froze in horror. Her father moved in the way that one does when wanting to do something but terrified that anything done will make the situation worse.

She lay there after, terrifyingly still. They could see her breathing, her tiny chest rising and falling, but Gimiltarîk still knelt beside her, eyes wide, searching for a pulse. He jumped when Saptharôth’s eyes opened. They were unfocused and her pupils were dilated, but a tiny, weak smile began to glow on her face. “I saw him,” she whispered. “And then he sent me back for you. He doesn’t want me to die. He doesn’t want anyone to die.”

“Who?” her father said, scooping her limp body into his arms, though he already knew the answer. His voice was wet with tears.

“The Giver of Freedom, the Lord of Darkness. Everything went dark and the darkness will save us. At night I can see when others cannot. I saw him. The Giver of Freedom. Arûn-Mulkhêr. Melkor, Melkor, Melkor, Melkor-–”

She repeated his name for an hour before she came back to herself.

-

For a time, she was hailed as a miracle. A prophet back from the dead. After the second time it happened, she wasn’t allowed to climb trees anymore. She would stare at them, lost, while Gimiltarîk climbed them, whispering words in what she claimed was a language only she could understand. It was the same thing she did when the town gathered to make their prayers to Arûn-Mulkhêr; they occasionally murmured about calling Zigûr to translate for her, though of course they never did. The right hand of the King had greater things to do than listen to a young girl, and besides, they were still claiming that he was a prisoner.

Gimiltarîk had tried to decipher it, once, falling asleep on his desk where he worked. At first, he thought it was his own error. It must have been. He checked and double checked. The paper he wrote on grew tear stains when he realized it was gibberish, that his sister wasn’t speaking a divine truth, that she was just–rambling. That it was the same as her convulsions: random, pointless.

He didn’t tell her. It hurt, to remember her halfway up a tree, swinging her legs and laughing and refusing to come down until nightfall, biting her lip as she carefully picked her way down far enough that she could safely jump off into her father’s arms. It hurt more to remember her staring at them, hands grabbing at the air, sobs building in her lungs. She cried enough already.

-

Saptharôth got worse as they grew older; when the temple went up, she was not allowed to visit it. She pounded on the walls and screamed until her voice went hoarse; when this failed to open them, she paced for hours talking to herself, claiming that she needed to walk to Valinor and bring back the secret that the gods kept hidden away. When the temple went up, she was inconsolable; to this this Gimiltarîk was sympathetic in truth, for the smoke was terrible, and reeked of human flesh. It disquieted him; for always the King’s Men had been those who had spoke against death. He had always thought that this was the difference between them and the Faithful: that Eru’s Gift was death, that blinded the eyes from the inside and made one insensate to the world, while Melkor’s Gift was darkness, which merely hid the world outside, and indeed allowed any light to shine out all the clearer. It didn’t make any sense; and at times Gimiltarîk heard their screams and wished to join her in wailing and fighting.

Still, they had to keep her inside, no matter how much she pounded or Gimiltarîk pitied; for even with her words mixed up, voice jumping from rhyming and sing-song to flat and repetitive, she made herself known, scratching imaginary bugs off of her skin, and blaming the false prophet Zigûr in the same high voice that praised Arûn-Mulkhêr. And since both their parents worked, the job fell to Gimiltarîk’s shoulders.

He tried to convince her over and over, that it did not matter which of them was false, that she would be a dead prophet if she said that aloud; and in response she laughed, light and happy, and spoke of Valinor, and of the change she could make, and did not stop speaking.

It was on one of her bad days that she grabbed Gimiltarîk’s arm with surprising force. “Zigûr is sending them–they’re everywhere, they’re covering me, please, say the right words, he’s trying to choke me so that the people do not hear me, he’s watching me, he’s trying to kill me, you need to save me, he’s lying to everyone, I need to stop him, I need to walk to the West, he’s the reason you’re trying to stop me, he’s convinced everyone that you have to kill, the smoke becomes shadows and follows me, it’s all crawling on me, all you have to do is let me walk to the West and bring it _back_ –-”

Gimiltarîk wrenched his arm back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I don’t know what words you want me to say, tell me what to do and I’ll do it but I’m not letting you walk yourself off a cliff-–”

“Please, please Gimiltarîk they’re _crawling_ on me-–can’t you see them–-”

“Saptha, there’s _nothing there_. Please. Look at me. There’s nothing there. It’s just you and me. If you keep talking like this, you’ll die, or–-waste away in here-– _please_.”

She didn’t look at him; she turned away, pacing faster. “Zigûr’s cloaked you with the smoke, why won’t you listen to me, why doesn’t anyone listen to me, you can’t hear me because of the bones in your ears, if I could just walk then I could reach the land of the Valar and steal back life and nobody would die, not ever again-–if I could just find out how to clear away the smoke–-”

He backed out of the room slowly at first. Once he was out of earshot, he ran until he collapsed, tears glittering on his cheeks.

Their mother stopped letting Saptharôth go outside unsupervised after that, no matter how much she bit and clawed. There was a growing, silent knowledge of what happened to people who called Zigûr a liar where other people could hear them.

-

Gimiltarîk first saw Aglaril outside a restaurant, giving a passionate speech to a gathered crowd, her dark hair swirling around her like a cloudy halo.

“The Elves told us that the Valar are good. The Valar send storms and lightning, hail and plagues, that kill old men and children alike; they dangle paradise where we can see it and tell us that it is for our own good that we are not allowed to enter, as though we were children to be shielded from our own choices. The Elves told us that death is a gift. Yet they left, naming us evil when Ar-Gimilzôr and Ar-Pharazôn gave their people such a gift.

“The Elves told us that Zigûr was evil. He came in chains before us, humbled, and asked nothing of us, but gave. He told us how to build ships of a kind we had never built before, sailless and hulled with metal; and we have sailed them. He told us how to build an engine, so that we might travel across Anadûnê or the colonies on Middle-Earth in a fraction of the time; and we have built them. He told us how to create machines that might capture an image of the world as it is, in a fraction of the time it would take to make a portrait; and we have seen them. The first thing he did here, he told us how to boil milk, so that we might fight the onslaught of death, and it has saved people.

“The Elves claim that we do not have enough faith. I think that this is a lie, just as everything they have told us has been a lie, to hide the fact that they do not have facts. That they are wrong, over and over again.

“The Elves told us that we must obey the Valar in everything, for the Valar are good and just; and so it must seem to those who are living in paradise, who have never known true death as we have. We are the Children of Men, and we have seen our fathers die and their fathers before them, and our mothers and grandmothers, we have gotten sick and suffered and prayed and noticed how prayer only sometimes works. How even when it does, it only ever delays the inevitable. If death is a gift, why do we not kill children on their birthdays? But we humans have always known that death is not a gift. Death is the enemy. It is as Andreth said, so many years ago: we knew in the beginning that we were born never to die. Our birthright is life everlasting, without any shadow of any end.

“The Elves told us to surrender. Zigûr handed us weapons and told us we can win. Who do you choose to believe?”

-

He saw her again on the beach, two days later; it was cloudy and windy, but it was not raining, and the water was warm. He ran to catch up to her.

“I heard your speech.”

“What did you think?”

“You asked-–if death is a gift, why don’t we kill children. But we do. You didn’t talk about that.”

Her eyebrows creased; she looked at him as though he were a particularly fascinating puzzle. “You’re not dressed like one of the Faithful.”

“That’s because I’m not Faithful.”

“You’re in hiding?”

“No. I’m a King’s Man. My sister is the prophet Saptharôth.”

“Then why are you asking me?”

“Because I want to know the answer.”

“We only kill the children of the people who insist that death is a gift.”

“So you think—what? We kill their children to prove a point?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Stop avoiding the question, then.”

“Alright. Zigûr has killed thousands of people and I think that is unconscionably evil. If Eru exists–”

“Eru’s a lie from either the Elves or the Valar. Why else does he only say things that are convenient for them?”

“I don’t think Eru exists. Why should I? But. _If Eru exists,_ he has killed millions. One third of all children die as children, and that’s not because of Zigûr, he’s not on that scale. You can’t even compare them, because for each person Zigûr kills-–if Zigûr had spared them, Eru would have killed them too, but slower. If Eru were to spare someone, truly spare them, for forever, nobody would dare kill them. But Eru has never spared anyone; death kills us all, the young and the old. We kill children and Zigûr burns innocents alive and every single death is a tragedy and-–we are fighting a war. I don’t–-if I could press a button and keep them alive for another two hundred years, I would. If I could press a button that would undo the Shadow over Anadûnê and keep everyone alive for another hundred, two hundred years, I would. But I would pass both of those up for a chance at actually _winning_ , instead of just–postponing our loss.” She was paler than most of the people of Númenor; beneath the tan, Gimiltarîk could see her face go red with passion and breathlessness. “Imagine it. Imagine winning. Millions of people, all living for millions of years, tending gardens and raising children and writing books and studying geology and stitching quilts and gathering to rejoice that nobody will ever have to die again. Killing a few thousand people took Zigûr years. It took Eru _days_. I wish we had better allies. We don’t. And it is a war, you have to know that it’s a war. Death has been killing us for thousands of years and finally we’re fighting back. It’s–-the same story that we’re always told about Melkor, in a way. That the Noldor killed innocent people thrice, but–-the war couldn’t have been won without them, and there were much worse enemies to fight.”

“In that story,” Gimiltarîk said slowly, “they lost the war anyway. The Noldor prolonged the fight, they didn’t win it. The Elves were reduced to a scattering of refuges along the coast. The war was won with divine intervention. We can’t rely on that. At least, not on our side.”

Aglaril grinned. “Would you like to come to dinner with me?”

Gimiltarîk laughed, more out of surprise than anything. “Are you asking me out?”

“Are you saying no?”

“I didn’t-–I’m sorry-–” It was Gimiltarîk’s turn to flush red, and he was grateful for his dark skin to hide it. “I mean. I’m. I would love to go to dinner with you.”

“Great,” Aglaril said, and laced his arm in hers.

-

“Do you think I’m selfish?” Gimiltarîk asked Saptharôth one day, throwing a stone at the sea, watching it skip once-twice-falling. He didn’t wait for an answer. “I do.”

“Why?”

His voice dropped to a whisper. “I don’t believe in Mulkhêr anymore. We pray to him and the Faithful pray to Eru and nothing changes, for either of us. We have the word of Zigûr, and they have the word of the Elves, and I don’t trust either of them. I-–you go to the temple because you believe in them. You hear the words of the Giver of Freedom and you writhe in-–divine glory or whatever-–and you promise us that we will see the end of death, that it’s coming. And I don’t know if I believe you, and I go anyway. I hear them scream and I want to stand up and run, I want to save them, because I don’t care what Zigûr says, it’s not for any–greater plan–-it’s just a fucking _waste_. But I don’t. Because I’m selfish.”

“You’d join them, if you did.” Saptharôth sighed and swayed, voice loud but flat. “I might still. I believe wrong. I speak against the false prophet, I–-”

“Shh!” Gimiltarîk dropped the stone he had picked up absently in order to clap his hand over Saptharôth’s mouth, eyes darting around, searching for people in earshot. “You _can’t say that_.” And then, kicking up a cloud of sand, he was the one to sigh. “Though I guess that’s what I’m talking about, right? You say what you believe in, even when it’d get you killed. And I’m too much of a coward to say _anything_ I believe in.” He took his hand off Saptharôth’s mouth slowly. “Please don’t say that anymore. Maybe I am selfish, but I– I don’t want you to die. Aglaril says that if something can be destroyed by the truth, it deserves to be, and it seems right, but–-you’re my little sister.”

“I don’t even remember it, not all the time,” Saptharôth said. Her voice was not quiet, but it broke. “How can I promise not to say something that I don’t even remember saying? You all already follow me around everywhere to hold me down. I can’t be alone in the baths in case I have a fit and drown there. I stay up all night staring at the stars from my window because it’s the only time I can be alone and talk. If I could make you stop I would.”

“Because you believe in Zigûr? Because you don’t want to die? Or just so that you could convince us to leave you unsupervised to try and climb trees or walk to Amatthânê?” He had intended the words to be bitter. They came out small and sad. “I don’t want to–-stand back and watch people die. So I hate going to the temple but I also hate it whenever Aglaril stays home, because if it gets noticed then she’s in danger. A coward _and_ a hypocrite.” His voice shook. “I don’t want to watch you die, either. You’re still my sister. I love you.”

“I know,” she said, looking profoundly sad. “I know.” She buried her face in his chest, wrapping her arms around him in a fierce hug. “I love you too. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. I’m sorry too.”

-

A scream ripped from Saptharôth’s throat, her voice breaking halfway through. She screamed and screamed and screamed, eyes wide and dilated, until her voice went hoarse and she started yelling and pounding on the walls.

That was not such an uncommon thing; even when her parents got home, they took dreadfully, painfully long to arrive. When they did, they screamed too, at the sight of it: at the sight of Gimiltarîk, unconscious on the floor of his room, bleeding from both wrists.

-

He awoke in the hospital. It was the middle of the night, but there were still doctors awake; more importantly, there was his sister. “Saptha,” he croaked.

“It’s me,” she replied, her breath quivering in her chest. “Gimiltarîk. I found you.”

“Oh, _Saptha_ ,” he said, and suddenly there were tears threatening his eyes. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t want you to find me like that. I’m–fuck. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Saptharôth said. “Or. No. It’s not okay. But you’re hurting worse than me.”

“It-–I shouldn’t have done that. You shouldn’t have had to find me like that. I’m so sorry.” The tears had begun to fall; he waited until his chest stopped shaking to speak again. “Our parents? And Aglaril?”

“They’re all here,” she agreed. “I’ll get them?”

“It’s okay if they’re not awake, I don’t want to upset them any more–-just-–fuck, Saptha, I’m sorry. Tell them I’m sorry? And that I’m okay. Tired and in pain, but-–they shouldn’t worry.”

She approached the bedside slowly, eyes still wide as a frightened deer. She reached out her hand tentatively, careful of the stitches, took his, and squeezed it tight. “I love you. Please don’t do that again.”

“I won’t,” he said. “I won’t. I love you too. To the moon and beyond.”

-

It was Aglaril, of course, that said what everyone else had been dancing around. She was alone with him; Saptharôth had collapsed in convulsions again, and their parents were bringing her food while she was still too tired to get her own. “Why did you do it?”

“Why should I be spared? I’m not different from the people who-–from the sacrifices. I was lucky enough to be born here instead of Middle-Earth, to a family that believed in Mulkhêr instead of the Valâi. It’s so arbitrary. And I was pretending for _so long_ , trying to hold it together, but-–I don’t deserve that luck, I’m not any better than them, if anything it’s the other way around, lots of them are just–-me but _more courageous_ , me but _more honest_ , me but a _better person_. I stand by and watch them die, because I’m too much of a selfish lying coward to do anything about it. And if being a better person means I have to die–-” His throat tightened and closed. “I wanted it to be on my terms, not on Zigûr’s.”

Aglaril’s expression was sad, but there was something else there too, closer to interest than horror. “If you die,” she asked slowly, “what good does that do? It doesn’t save them. Neither would speaking up or trying to drag them away. All it means is that more people die. If someone is holding a knife to your chest while they kill someone else, it doesn’t make you a bad person not to throw yourself onto the knife trying to get to the other person, it makes you realistic. Maybe a more honest person in your circumstances would be different, but it’s not wrong or evil to lie in self-defence to preserve your life, not when telling the truth wouldn’t even change anything.”

“But I don’t deserve–-”

“No one deserves to die,” she said instantly. “I’ve said that before and you know how much I believe it. No one. No one deserves that, even if they have done things wrong. I don’t think you have. But if you won’t stop believing that you have, then at least hold on to that. No one deserves to die, ever, no matter what. Every last person on this world deserves to live forever, and you are not an exception to that. You see that people are dying, and you’re a better person than half the people on this island so you want to _do something about it_ , but since you can’t do anything you decide to join them. But it’s not–it wouldn’t fix anything, it wouldn’t make anything better. All it would do is add more death to the world. And death is bad. It’s-–it truly is that simple, or at least it can be. If you die, that’s wrong, it’s awful, it’s undeserved, because there is no such thing as a death that’s _not_.”

“I don’t know if I can believe you yet,” Gimiltarîk said, slowly and quietly, “but I’d like to.”

“Good,” Aglaril said, and kissed him, gently at first but then hungrily, as though she was acutely aware of how much time they had and was determined to make the most of it.

-

Gimiltarîk’s wounds closed, in time, leaving two thick, raised lines that snaked up his wrists like rope. His smiles came back slowly at first, but then more and more.

Aglaril sat at his bedside and tried to read him books. She stumbled over the words and tripped on the sentences but blazed forward despite it with the fierce determination that went through everything she did. He listened intently, and refused to accept apologies for her poor reading skills, insisting that the stories that tumbled forth from such a beautiful voice made everything that came out of her mouth incredible. When he could sit up, he did, and took the books from her hands; he read faster than she did, and into his words he infused passion and character, voice growing loud and quiet, sad and joyous in turn to match the dialogue. He claimed it was to repay her, but she refused to accept repayment for what she insisted was a gift, and repaid him in turn by reading poetry; she had to practice, but once she had gotten a handle on a poem, her voice soared and leapt through the words, delighting in the music of it.

Saptharôth sang lullabies at night, swaying with her eyes closed, and squeezed his hand, tight enough that it was hard to believe she could ever let go.

They moved in together, the three of them, to a small place on a cliff where they could look out at the sea. Saptharôth started a garden and spent most of her time in it; herbs and flowers and dirt were soft on her, when she fell, better than the cold stone that left her with bruises, and she could sing as she worked. She didn’t seem to mind the rain, at least not like Gimiltarîk did; when he ran inside at the slightest shower, her hands laughed at him, and when she shivered from the cold sleet, he was there with a warm drink. Her and Aglaril talked more and more, until they had a language of their own, trading poetry quotes when it was too hard for Saptharôth to use her own words. Saptharôth taught Aglaril how to tend the garden, and Aglaril brushed Saptharôth’s hair with her fingers and then braided flowers into it.

-

It was said in books that, when Númenor was first established, the weather was always as it was needed. But in the later days, it felt as though there was naught but storms, blowing at the warships that accumulated at the coast. Gimiltarîk complained incessantly and spent much of his time inside, reading; Aglaril debated at length whether it was better for the Valar if the books were lies (because then it might be true that they did not control the weather, and therefore it was not their fault when a storm drowned the crops and sent children hungry to bed) or if the books were truth (because then at least they had once cared and helped, even if they did so no longer). Saptharôth tilted her head and said that the oceans they had longed for were falling upon them from on high, that gift and punishment had knotted into a single rope impossible to untangle, and in the end she came the closest to the truth.

Aglaril’s debates were settled when Manwë declared war; and clouds came in the shape of eagles, or perhaps eagles came so large and dark that they appeared as clouds, darkening the dusk, hiding the light of the stars and moon and sun.

(Aglaril just laughed, and said, “It is good that we did not listen when they told us not to worship the dark!”)

But the declaration of war was not merely the messenger; for either they were clouds in truth, or else Manwë’s eagles had some fraction of his power, for lightning struck and the temple burned.

(“If it was only the temple,” Gimiltarîk said, “I would understand. Yesterday, I was walking down the street, and a man was holding hands with his daughter, and they were going into a sweets-shop to get her something for her good performance in school. He let go of her hand to get his money and he—fell to the ground with a burst of light-–and oh, how she _screamed_ –-it’s wrong. If this is what the Valar call justice then I am _glad_ I am a hypocrite.”)

Sauron did not die, when the temple burned; he stood there and laughed, even as the lightning struck and the ground beneath him shook and burned and smoke rose from the Meneltarma, too, not only the temple.

(“It’s too late,” Saptharôth whispered, and wept inconsolably. “We are blinded twice now, once for each eye; once for Zigûr and once for Amân. The smoke is so thick, Gimiltarîk, it’s choking us all. How do we live yet?”)

Ar-Pharazôn ordered the navy to gather in preparation. Where the clouds blanketing the sky were vague and dark, an amorphous vision of smoke, the ships off the coast seemed almost too detailed, gleaming with gold sails and steel plating, a forest where there should not be a forest. Aglaril’s face was determined when she left to join them, though Gimiltarîk wept. It seemed to him as though he was the only one not to have known that this would be their future.

“Death has been killing us for thousands and thousands of years,” she said to him as they stared at the dark waves crashing upon the shore. “I can’t avoid this war. If I try to ignore it, it will come to kill me. This is just a chance for me to fight against it. We haven’t-–Agân kills us every day, refusing to face us in a form we can fight. And Eru-–Agân–-is the one that kills them, and we still haven’t fought, we’re still not going to fight until they do worse. But they will, they have shown time and time again that they will. I– I hope they do. I hope they do something so monstrous that all the world rises up together against them and ends the tragedy of death forever. I knew it would come to this, my love. I have to fight, you know I do.”

“I do,” Gimiltarîk whispered, and rested his forehead on hers, clutching her tightly and hoping it would not be for the last time. “I do. I’ve always known. I fell in love with you because I knew. You are a woman who sees death and does not rest until she has killed it, and I love you for it, and I– I’m selfish. You know that. I love you. I hope you win.”

She kissed him, tasting of smoke and sea-salt, and turned away.

-

Gimiltarîk spent many of his days after that watching the ships that hung in the sea, counting them and wondering. Which of them was Aglaril in? How many days would she be there? How long until–-until–-

(For it did seem as though they were waiting, though they did not yet know what for.)

-–until Saptharôth came to tug his hand insistently and sing a lullaby and the message was clear enough even when she was unable to speak; and so, day after day, Gimiltarîk allowed himself to be led to bed, until–- until–-

Until he woke one morning to find Saptharôth sitting on the floor, looking at the ceiling, not moving or responding to his words. She moved shifted obligingly when he moved her, limbs limp and compliant beneath his fingers, but she stared ahead, eyes dilated but terrifyingly empty, and she did not help him, just sat on the floor as dead weight. It was only the rise and fall of her chest, the periodic blinking of her eyes, the steady pulse of her heart that comforted him.

He went outside, preparing to call for a doctor, and stopped in his tracks. It seemed as though the Eagles were coming from the sun itself, points of dark against the brightness; as they approached, they blotted it out so that they glowed red as a finger might if you put a candle behind it. There seemed to be no end to them, and suddenly Gimiltarîk grew afraid for Aglaril, and wished he could run out into the sea crying _wait! wait! please! you cannot fight infinity, you are going to die there without having said goodbye, I am selfish and I do not want you to be a martyr I want you to be my wife I’m so sorry I never got the chance to ask you–-_

Saptharôth came out of the house eventually, and Gimiltarîk held her with a desperation until the trumpets blew out and the ships set sail and it became time for her to hold him. They clung to each other, listening to the thunder and the trumpets war, and heard beneath it all the sound of crashing waves; and they stayed there, frozen, until the night came and the stars rose and silence fell over the island of Númenor, and at last they heard only their own sobs and a vain hope that was not quite a prayer.

-

Thirty-nine days passed. Saptharôth and Gimiltarîk ate one hundred and fifteen meals at their dining room table, alternately avoiding and staring at the empty chair. The sun and the tides rose and fell, and waves lapped at the shore, and no news came. Gimiltarîk did not sleep, but watched the coastline, listening for the slap of oars on water; and Saptharôth did not sleep, but paced, and rambled, and prayed.

“He doesn’t want me to die,” Saptharôth wailed, pacing her garden, inconsolable. “He sent me back because he didn’t want me to die, he told me what to do. And now Zigûr and Amân have sent smoke so I could not hear him and so no one can hear me and everyone has forgotten and so I am caged and unfree and I have to bring it back in turn. They’re here, they’re all here, they’re everywhere, why can’t you hear the _screaming--_ ”

“It’ll be okay, Saptha, they’ll win–-they have to win-–and you’ll be free forever,” Gimiltarîk said gently; he reached for her arm but she jumped away, eyes wild. “There isn’t any screaming. You’re safe for now.”

He had scarcely finished his sentence when fire erupted from the Meneltarma, and the ground tilted and the wind felt like a wall of air whipping them around and at last Gimiltarîk could hear the screaming, and he grabbed for her arm more urgently a moment too late.

-

Whether they died from the fire or the sea or the debris thrown by the winds none are alive now to say; but many say that it was a just punishment for their treason, given by a merciful divinity. It is thus that their bodies were sunk alone, the light gone out of their eyes; and it was thus that Aglaril had been imprisoned days before, screaming, beneath the falling hills of the Calacirya.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] In The Indigos of Darkness](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23458576) by [WolffyLuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolffyLuna/pseuds/WolffyLuna)




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